


Fugue State

by cyanocorax



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dissociative Identity Disorder, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-29
Updated: 2011-12-29
Packaged: 2017-10-28 11:24:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/307376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyanocorax/pseuds/cyanocorax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This town is big enough for the two of us.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fugue State

James Moriarty was born in Cambridge in spring, in the rain, on a Tuesday. He was twenty-one at the time and the name had seemed storybook-picturesque. It still does, in a way.

He doesn't know when or where his body came into being. He'd never asked. He thinks it must’ve been late at night, though. The idea pleases him in its disruptive inconvenience. Shrieking into existence in an empty, featureless void.

He always did like being dramatic.

 

Sebastian Moran was born in London in spring, in the rain, on a Wednesday, late at night. It must’ve been a very long time ago, for he can’t remember a moment of it. He does remember making his sister cry, and the way his father used to look at him from across the dinner table, and the taxidermied tiger head in his room. He remembers that very well indeed. It used to keep him up at night, eyes wide open, fangs bared, snout crinkled, looking as if it were lunging out of the wall.

That aside, he also remembers a long plane ride to the desert and his father’s hand between his shoulder blades, guiding him forcefully down the street, past veiled women and fast-talking men, into a car that took them to where the city met the sand.

Sebastian fell in love with the world when he was twelve years old and really, he’s yet to stop.

 

 

Midnight. The television’s on, but muted. Molly is really quite light, even like this, sprawled across his chest, chin on his shoulder. A bit of her lipstick is smudged across the corner of his mouth. He frowns and tries to wipe it away, then slips out from underneath her and leaves her humming in her sleep upon the sofa.

The cat grumbles as he brushes past it on his way out the door. Odd lives, these people lead. Like proofs. Step by step to an inevitable conclusion.

He locks the door behind him with the spare key she keeps under the mat, then takes the lift down to the street.

 

One. He’s in Warehouse C, the one closest to the river, and therefore the one he hates most. He’s been there for a little while now, though how long precisely he’s never sure. Clearly, long enough. The body beside him is still warm.

He wipes the blood from his hands on a clean, white towel, then throws it into the stiff, plastic bag on the floor. Someone’s going to have to clean the mess up before sunrise. Better he than Jim, he supposes, and lights another cigarette.

The smell of a woman’s perfume clings to his shirt. He takes the dirtied knife from where it dropped upon the ground and observes the corners of his mouth reflected in the blade.

Lipstick.

Sebastian smiles.

 

Noon. _I should’ve gone into theatre, is what I should’ve done_ , he tells himself.

The lab is nicely cluttered, everything bright, fluorescent, and clean. Jim likes the way Sherlock looks at him, like he’s a puzzle. He slips his arm around Molly’s waist, feels the movement of her muscles and organs. The world is a living, breathing thing.

Glancing at the trainers, he realizes he can’t even remember Carl Powers anymore, but that’s alright. He’ll get someone else to do it for him.

The shoes spin between Sherlock’s long, pale fingers, around and around again.

 

Six. There’s a nip in the air. He can see the old woman from where he’s crouched, see her lips move to make the words that are being crackled down his ear piece.

He lets her get to ‘ _soft_ ,’ because fair is fair, then takes the shot.

 

Seven. Jim makes two cups of Earl Grey, as per usual. One with everything in it, the other plain. He sets them out on the table, takes a little sip from the one with everything. His hands still smell of gun oil. He sighs and shuts his eyes.

“Hurry up,” he snaps into the silence, “before it gets cold.”

 

Two past. He’s home and can’t remember getting there, but the tea’s already been laid out, so that’s alright.

He finishes his cup quietly while watching the other one cool, then rises, and turns off the kitchen light.

 

Midnight. They wake.

Sebastian is smoking inside again; loathsome habit. Jim doesn’t know why he puts up with it. Sharing a body is much like sharing a house, really. One must respect the other occupants’ wishes, so long as they are within reason.

Perhaps that’s the caveat, then— _reason_.

“Productive day,” says Sebastian.

Jim hums. “What was Carl like again?”

“Alright. Messy. You liked him until you didn’t.”

It comes back a little, then. The smell of chlorine.

Another smoke ring rises into the ceiling. “Why don’t you think we ever sleep, eh?” Sebastian asks. “Could do with a kip now and then.”

“Because then we couldn’t do this,” Jim says, getting up (had he even been sitting to begin with?), stepping closer, until they are lined up eye to eye. Sebastian Moran is a featureless, flaming shadow. He is a thousand lit up oil barrels in the night, a fire in the desert, a vessel, a tiger caught between walls, and he is smiling.

He puts the cigarette between Jim’s lips.

They look at each other, and then they blink.

 

Three. Sunlight pours in through an open window.

Jim puts on his nicest suit and goes for a stroll, down to Warehouse C. The one closest to the river. His absolute favorite. His men are already there; he hands one of them a mobile and the number to dial before glancing inside, at the little frightened shape sitting upon a wooden stool in the middle of that large and empty room.

“Do it,” Jim says. “And put it on speaker.”

A part of him wonders, listlessly, as the boy begins to count, what it must be like to be a child. He makes a little mental note to ask Sebastian later that night, and then, somewhere else, starts working on the answer.

 

Five. The gunmen are filled in and equipped. They look at him with eerie awe that he sucks in with relish; don’t they know they’re chesspieces; don’t they understand?

They remind him of himself, an infinite number of days ago.

He hears them whisper amongst themselves that not even he knows who the boss is. Nameless and faceless, they say, and Sebastian smirks, and puts his hands in his pockets, hoping Jim can hear them from where he stands.

 

Eight. The waitress brings two glasses of wine without asking any questions. A dry white and a full-bodied red. He sets them side by side in front of him and calmly cuts into his steak.

The city turns outside in a thousand marvelous directions. Light, color, sound. He turns back to the wine. “I’m afraid your palate will be ruined, my dear,” he murmurs, lifting his glass to the light, swirling it gently. “Drinking red after white is an atrocity to the tongue.”

 

Ten. His mouth is a brew of flavors, half of which he doesn’t recall putting there. They move in polyphonies.

 _It's alright_ , he supposes, watching the men get into place, _if one of us goes. Not the end o' the world._

Smell of chlorine. He remembers.

 

Midnight. Jim looks Sherlock Holmes square in the eye and tells him a secret.

The best part is, he doesn’t even know it is one. The best part is, he never ever will.

**Author's Note:**

> fugue state: an altered state of consciousness in which a person may move about purposely and even speak but is not fully aware.
> 
> elements of d.i.d. here too but mostly i just played around with it a little. it's not exactly medically precise etc. i just took 'i'm sooo changeable!!' and ran it into the ground.
> 
> i hope i haven't offended anyone in writing this and if i have please tell me so that i can correct my mistakes.


End file.
